Having to struggle with eyeliner in front of my boss/use his bathroom to forcibly stuff myself into Spanx was pretty much the *only* boundary our work relationship had yet to cross. To make things worse, there was no wine and no Katy Perry– just the sound of my heavy breathing as I tried to figure out how to get the control top over the explosive girth of my thighs without the usual leverage of laying against my queen sized bed.

My outfit for the night was the second runner up in my “dresses I wear when feeling fat,” and was paired with my bare ass legs because the blizzard had prevented me from making my usual Target run for a $15 pair of leggings that can only survive two hours before sustaining a puncture.

All those nights I mocked the scantily clad women who shivered on the frozen streets of downtown Denver were coming back to bite me in my spanx-swaddled arse.

I comforted myself knowing I could just hide beneath my swankily stylish black coat. Until I put it on and realized instead of the nicely tailored and feminine frock I’d envisioned, it was actually Alex’s old black zip up pea coat from JcPenney. Somehow I had grabbed the wrong one when leaving the house that morning. While it was somewhat miraculous to finally wear a coat where the sleeves were long enough for my arms, I looked like some sort of boxy Lego character with fluorescent lights for legs.

When we arrived at the gala, I tried to stifle my hysteria by looking for humor in the darkness— Like the fact I had nowhere to put my name tag because the Second Runner Up Fat Dress was also a Everyone Look At My Cleavage Dress. I tried to stick my nametag to my right hip but my boss didn’t find this amusing.

I spent the next 45 minutes wandering around not talking to people and trying not to throw a drink in my boss’s face when he made such charming statements as “I’ll deduct the cost of your wine from whatever new business you bring us tonight.”

Spoiler Alert:No one got any new business, except for the Uber that came to take me away like a Fairy Godmother at the end of the night.

At our $3000 table, I was miraculously seated next to two empty seats, which meant I could spend the night speaking to no one except the lovely people of Twitter:

When I did join the conversation, it was so I could be a dismal wingman for my boss, who’s attractive seatmate leaned over to include me in the conversation:

“So Aussa, are you here with [MY BOSS] or with [MY COMPANY]?”

I was developing an ear infection and sustaining my inability to do anything that makes sense, so I answered. “Oh, both!”

I thought she had asked if I worked with him or with the company. But no. I basically said “Oh, I’m on the payroll but also a whore.”

After this, I spent the next half hour developing new ways to nurture a 15% iPhone battery while avoiding eye contact with all the other humans. The only redeeming point of the night came when a guy across the table began fiddling with the little plastic table decor that marked each of our seats.

“It’s made out of sugar,” I said. “Fondant. You’re supposed to eat it.”

He looked skeptical, but I gave him my best “I Am A Successful Professional Face” and he trusted me because he didn’t know I had arrived in a man’s coat and just committed verbal infidelity. Raising the brightly colored plastic to his mouth, he took a hearty bite out of it. It snapped in half as he spit it into his hand, causing his girlfriend to throw her hands up in shock.

For that one brief glorious moment I wasn’t the most ridiculous person at the gala.

Impressive. When I’m feeling really awkward, I always like to play pranks on strangers.

Like this one: when the desert is served (especially if it’s something with frosting), say “that’s strange, there’s steam coming off it. Is it supposed to be served hot like that?” When they look at you funny, put your hand over the top of their desert and then pull it away quickly, with a “yup, that’s hot alright. Weird.” Then, when they put their hand over the top of the desert to figure out what the heck you’re talking about, push it down into their cake or whatever, and say “whoops, my bad.”

Then apologize profusely, cleaning their hand off with your napkin. Give them your desert while your husband says something about your always behaving this way after a drink or two too many.

I never had fancy jobs to go to fancy galas. Thank goodness. LOL I wouldn’t go. Period. I never did fancy dress well. (worse than you even!) As for parties. I don’t go to them, didn’t go to them. The last company party I went to was back in the dark ages. It was my first and last. 😉

So, my site had some major issues and was down for two days and I remember that I replied to this comment and it was HILAR/SUPER INSIGHTFUL or something I could be proud of. But that response was lost. And now I am sitting here thinking….. parties. hate. parties.

I hate fancy occasions! And as my depression/anxiety rear it’s new found ugly head I find myself dreading any kind of gathering larger than, oh say… 1(ok I can handle up to a dozen or so.)
When I cannot survive awkward social obligations I rely on a few time tested ways to keep level… bad jokes, watching my kids if they are there(gets me out of any situation when I say, “I have to check on _____”), a perfected fake laryngitis growl, and the real need to get up and move around every so often due to my back issues.
I reserve my pranks for people I know and have even stopped that to a large degree. Fuckin’ maturity sucks moose balls!

I feel like young children will be a fantastic way of avoiding things. I mean– they’re already super legit at preventing you from doing anything fun in the first place, no one is going to question you when you say “sorry, can’t make it to the gala, little Kev is stuck in a tree.” Then chasing them around and keeping them from falling down stairs seems like a great thing to do as opposed to talking to people– if you actually end up at the fancy party.

I hate it when my preparation rituals get disrupted. I used to be a lot less picky about them, but I also used to get around a lot better than I do now. You probably look good in a pea coat, though something longer might have made more sense in the snow…

Explosive girth of [your] thighs? Aussa, you might be feeling fat, but you look terrific.

I spent a lot of time going to fancy parties, etc, etc, for about 20 years. Then I just quit. Couldn’t take it any more – it’s not my style. Talk about forcing yourself into some spanx – that’s an apt metaphor for how my psyche felt. 🙂

Yes, seriously! That is a very good metaphor. Why put ourselves through the torture? Why? I never wear spanx– except for occasions like this– so much so that I have to buy new ones every time because I go through some sort of revolutionary “I will never wear this again!” thing and throw them out. Famous last words.

I am going to sound like I’m bragging, and I’m not. Trust me. But this one time, when I went to the Emmy awards (and totally had a moment with Kevin Bacon), I made a fool out of myself by not only dropping my first glass of champagne and shattering it all over the floor, but I managed to do it twice. In a row. In a room full of fancy dressed celebrities. I get it. I don’t think I’m allowed to go back.

I read this comment the other day while I was at work and I swear it’s the only thing that got me through the day. I died. How do I not already know this story? This reminds me of Dallas, when I kept spilling wine/champagne/water/coffee all over myself the entire time.

I just laughed my butt off. I’m totally fine mentally at galas but prefer not to go anymore. I usually do stupid shite, like the time I accidentally tripped and dunked my head in the punchbowl. Or the time I tripped and fell down the stairs in front of my CEO. Or the time my boyfriend had to tell me to fix my right nipple. Or the time I freaked out because some actor from Cirque Du Soleil tried to give me a lap dance and I kneed him in the junk. I’m pretty much not allowed out in public anymore

I have not gone to a fancy dress party since I was in the military and did not have to worry about what to wear. I had to wear my uniform. It was no less awkward; but at least I did not have to worry about what I should wear.

I don’t mind getting dressed up when I’m allowed to ignore everyone and have zero agenda. The need to impress people is what zaps me of my will to live. When it’s just me, Alex, and the invisible people, I don’t mind.

Everybody is awkward in their own ways at those things. I find that too much time spent with “people” outside my circle, usually ends up in some sort of very uncomfortable silence. Small talk always runs out and BIG talk only invites someone to call your bluff. LOL. And even if you can back up said BIG talk then you are an arrogant bore for boasting. Find me the bar, and then a table out of the way so I can suffer quietly through the “worst of times”. A closed mouth gathers no foot!!! LMAO.

You will never EVER catch me talking big. To anyone. Unless it’s Alex and I’m drunk and I’m feeling like I need to defend something stupid I’ve recently invested time and/or money in but probably not even then. People who talk themselves up make me want to rip my own eyeballs out and shove them down my ears. But I just smile and nod along. Because I am part of the problem.

I am really glad to know that you are still hilarious. And really weird. Stop making people eat plastic – plastic is not meant for oral insertion. Trust me.

I don’t attend galas (especially with that kind of price tag), but I did buy something that looked like juice from a little kid purporting to sell lemonade at a road-side booth last summer. It tasted like pee. Trust me.

Glad to see your blog is working again. I was all like: what’s up with these greyed out screens that won’t let me read the comments, do you even know whose blog this is?? I’m not sure when it was that I began addressing internet problems out loud, and as if they were demons, but there it is.

I pretty much had this pegged as disastrous at “no wine & no Katy Perry”…All I could do is feel your pain as I read this. I hate anything formal. I hate Spanx. I hate I missed this post when it first came out.

I also hate that I read these things at work, because they always make me LOL, and I’m incredibly busy and not supposed to be reading your blog because my tasks are not going to complete themselves, but “It’s made out of sugar”? Priceless and so worth the sideways glances…

Sorry to disappoint, my coworkers are actually really grounded. My supervisor did design her house after Game of Thrones and she’s super goth, but other than that everyone is really normal. My only incident with a client is that he was a super old guy who had an accident and when I asked him if he needed help changing his clothes, he said, “Yes,” then stood in front of me naked smiling. I asked him if he needed help putting his underwear on and he sighed and barked, “No, I got it,” then later asked for a stiff drink.